


Apologies

by allfinehere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfinehere/pseuds/allfinehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after Sherlock's return, John and Sherlock have an argument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet was written for a Grab Bag Challenge by johnlockchallenges on Tumblr. My prompt was "No! Not the chair." from Tumblr user thereichenbachfallen. 
> 
> Somehow the things I intend to write never end up being the things I actually write.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at allfinehere :)

John stomped up the stairs to the flat and viciously hung his coat up on the hook, where it promptly fell in heap on the floor. Scowling, he picked it up and hung it with a little more self control, and this time it stayed. He marched into the kitchen out of habit, but didn’t feel up to making tea so he rounded on Sherlock, who had just walked calmly through the door. 

“You are going to call him and apologize,” John hissed through clenched teeth.

“I don’t see why,” Sherlock replied airily. “I only said what was true. It was even relevant,” he added as he hung up his coat and scarf with precise care.

“It was _not_ relevant,” John retorted. “Slightly related, maybe, by six degrees of separation, but not relevant. Really, Sherlock. Why the hell do you do things like that? Especially since -” He bit his lip and cut himself off. He’d been about to say, “especially since you came back,” but he tried not to use Sherlock’s return from the dead as ammunition in arguments as it hurt them both. From the slight darkening of Sherlock’s eyes, he could see that he might as well have completed his sentence. Taking a deep breath, John made an attempt to calm down. 

“Sherlock,” he began in a forced even tone, “you really need to call Lestrade and apologize. Send him a text, even. What you did was not okay.”

“Just because you’re _friends_ with him -” Sherlock sneered.  

“He’s your friend, too,” John shot back, all pretense of being calm gone. “So quit pretending he’s not. He saved your life when you were on drugs. He lets you help out on cases, and let’s not _even_ pretend you wouldn’t go mad without them. His career was all but ruined when you went off and played dead, and he was decent enough to be _happy_ to see you when you came back.”  

“He needs me for -”

“No!” John cut him off. “You. Need. Him. Just like you need Mrs. Hudson, you need Mycroft, and you need me. Oh, you’d like to pretend you’re a solitary self-sustaining island, not susceptible to the plight of humanity, but _you’re not._ You need friends, and we’re what you’ve got. So quit taking everyone for granted.”

Sherlock stalked over to his chair with clear intent to sulk.

“No! Not the chair,” John said in a steely voice. “We’re having this out properly.” 

Sherlock stopped just short of his chair but didn’t turn around to face John, his form stiff and unyielding. At least he hadn’t shut himself in his room yet. John sighed and walked around to face Sherlock, who was staring straight ahead, lips pressed thinly together.  

“Sherlock,” he said gently, taking the detective’s hand in his. “I know it’s been difficult since you came back. Things have changed, but it’s not all bad. It’s okay for you to be more...vulnerable, I suppose. To care about people and have them care about you in return - it’s all okay.”

“I’m not an idiot, John,” came the cold reply. 

“Well you could’ve fooled me,” John retorted, then softened a bit. “Sorry. I know you know these things, but I think sometimes you need reminding. It’s...difficult to watch you going around pretending you don’t need anyone, don’t need me...” John trailed off and averted his gaze, eyes bright with unshed tears. Sherlock studied him, and finally something clicked. 

“This isn’t just about Lestrade,” he said quietly. “It’s about you. And I’m an idiot for not having seen it,” he added as he wrapped his arms around John and held him close. “John, you're the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “And I apologize for not always showing it. The months I was gone...it was incredibly difficult for me to refrain from contacting you. Mycroft gave me updates on you sometimes, and...well, I know it’s a ridiculous saying, but it broke my heart to know you were in pain and there was nothing I could do.” 

John slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist and leaned against him, resting his head on Sherlock’s chest. He listened carefully; Sherlock rarely spoke this much about his time away from 221B, and when he did it was usually facts about what he’d done, not emotions. 

“But John,” he continued, a note of distress in his voice, “whenever I try to put myself in your place, imagine how I’d feel if I thought you were dead, I can’t. It hurts too much. So I am terribly sorry for what you went through while I was gone.”

They’d had that conversation several times since Sherlock had come back. Sherlock would apologize, and John would say that it was okay, that Sherlock had taken the only option he thought he had at the time. So John replied, “I know you are. It’s all right, Sherlock. I’m sorry I lost my temper. It’s just...it’s difficult sometimes,” he admitted. 

To John’s disappointment, Sherlock disentangled himself and pulled out his phone. After some quick typing, he slid it back in his pocket and immediately enveloped John in his lanky form again. “There. I’ve texted Lestrade my apologies and offered to help him on any three cases he wants me for, even if they’re incredibly dull.” 

John smiled into Sherlock’s shirt. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he teased.

“Yes, well. We’ll see who’s laughing when you have to come along with me only to discover that a husband murdered his wife in a jealous rage or that some teenagers robbed a shop.”

John laughed. “Give Lestrade a little credit. He probably won’t call you in for anything less than a double homicide or a whole string of burgled shops.” 

Sherlock took a small step back, then leaned down slightly and kissed John gently, still reveling in the sensation each time it happened. He suspected he would never get bored of kissing John, and thus far he was right. Leaning his forehead against John’s, he asked, “Okay?” 

“Okay.”


End file.
